The Girl Who Laughs
by MachGirl
Summary: Flag gives a innocuous order, Harley Quinn goes into inexplicable hysterics, and Deadshot catches a glimpse of the woman behind the laughter.


"And Quinn ... just try not to screw up."

The exasperation in Flag's voice was palpable. Harley started laughing. It was a deep and throaty sound, thoroughly unlike her signature giggles. Floyd read this as some strange display of sarcasm and turned his attention back to Flag. At least, he tried to. Unfortunately, if Harley Quinn knew how to do anything, it was command attention. Her laughter grew in both pitch and intensity at a rate that was not only distracting, but also alarming.

"Quinn, is there something you want to share with the class?" Flag gave her his best disapproving glare.

Harley didn't respond. Indeed, it seemed to Floyd that she _couldn't_ respond. She was gasping for air, like she was drowning in her own laughter. Her eyes, wide and crazed, darted amongst the group but communicated nothing. That might have been what made him most uneasy. It was too reminiscent of that news anchor who'd died on air from cosmetics laced with Joker's Smylex.

Floyd knew that the chances Smylex had left Gotham were slim. Neighboring cities had refused imports until the Bat claimed he got things under control. Even if some had slipped through, it would only make sense that Harley had the same immunity to it that Joker did. Yes, Floyd knew this. Still, a voice in the back of his brain insisted that The Bat was only a man and the Joker wasn't big on making sense.

He stepped towards her with the same caution one might have for any of the big cats. "Harley? You okay?"

"I'm fine!" she said, although she sounded far from it. "In fact, I'm right as rain!" She laughed some more. The sound reverberated against the walls. Soon it sounded like at least five Harleys all laughing together. It only made the whole thing more disturbing.

Floyd reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Harl-"

The laughter stopped.

So it _wasn't_ Smylex.

She stared at him, eyes still wide but now glazed with the slightest hint of ... fear?

"I don't like bein' touched," she said.

"My bad." Floyd raised his hands and took a step backward. "We cool?"

He had always thought Harley Quinn's claims to insanity were ... overstated. As was her claim to the title of "clown." Both seemed to amount to little more than her being somewhat obnoxiously quirky. Now, seeing her utter confusion as she scanned the room, his thoughts changed. She may have been playing it up, but _something_ wasn't wired right.

Flag must have noticed too. He asked her, "The hell is wrong with you?"

Harley's mouth curved into an 'o' of disbelief. Tears began rolling down her cheeks. There was a hollow _thunk_ of wood hitting tile as she abandoned her baseball bat and darted for the nearest exit.

"Quinn!" called Flag. "Quinn, get back here!" He reached to set off her nano bomb, but a series of discordant bumps took all the urgency out of the moment. His face fell.

"Can't even get down a flight of stairs and _she's_ gonna take down the next Superman." With a sigh, Flag stepped toward the exit. Floyd put a hand out to stop him.

"You are not prepared for that level of crazy," he said.

"Oh, I'm not _prepared?_ "

"Yeah, you're not _prepared_."

"And _you_ are?"

"I'm from Gotham," Floyd said. "What do you have on that?"

Floyd found Harley sprawled out on the landing between two staircases. It took immense self-restraint for him not to ask what she expected, running in high heels. Instead he trotted downstairs and knelt by her side. She was sobbing, and the sound triggered a pavlovian reaction in him. Pavlov's Dad.

"What's happening, Dollface?"

She looked over her shoulder, and the furrow of her brow made it seem as though it was the first time she'd ever seen him. "Floydie?"

That was an awful nickname, but he wasn't about to bitch at the crying woman over it.

The reality of what she had done must have dawned on her with the recognition of his face. The confusion in her eyes gave way to desperation. She clambered onto her knees and crawled toward him. "Oh God, Floydie, ya've gotta tell Flag not to kill me! Tell 'im I'm sorry and I didn't mean to scare nobody and he ain't gotta kill me because I'm okay! Will ya please tell him that? Please?"

"Girl, you are not even in the same _area code_ as 'okay.'" Floyd sat down on the closest step. "But I'm pretty sure if Flag was gonna kill you he would have done it by now."

He offered her a hand. She took it and pulled herself up onto the step beside him. They sat in silence; Harley staring at her feet, Floyd gazing out the nearest window. He let out a deep breath, hoping that by the time he finished he'd have thought of something to lighten the mood. No such luck.

"I guess I really am just a big ol' screw up, ain't I?" It was a question, but she didn't wait for him to respond. (That was a relief; how was he supposed to know?) "Mr. J was always sayin' it. Now Flag is sayin' it. And I can't even keep it together long enough so my head don't go _booosh!_ " She mimed an explosion with her hands. " _Gawd._ No wonder he left me to drown."

So the Joker was a shitty boyfriend. No surprise there.

"Well," Floyd said, "at least he's gonna get you out of this gig, right?"

"Yeah!" she said. "Of course he is! He's my puddin'. I know he cares about me. He's said so. So why wouldn't he come for me?"

Floyd cocked an eyebrow, unsure if Harley was joking or just naive. Then he actually looked at her. Her face was blank, eyes far away. He found it almost as disturbing as the fit of inappropriate laughter somehow. It was like he'd stared into the abyss too long. Now it was staring back but rather than some unfathomable horror what he had found was this, a broken woman.

And then it was gone.

Harley closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and a smile spread across her face. She was back to normal. Well, her _version_ of normal, at least.

"Come on, Floydie." She rose to her feet. "We shouldn't push our luck with Flag, or he might turn us both into mystery meat. And ya know he'd regret killin' me eventually. I may be a screw up, but I'm the only one who's ever gonna laugh at his jokes! Ha!"

"Yeah," Floyd said. "I guess you're right." He too stood up, at which point, much to his surprise, Harley threw her arms around his neck and embraced him.

"I, uh, thought you didn't like being touched."

"I don't," said Harley, "but I like hugs."

With that assurance, Floyd hugged her back.

"You better not tell anyone about this," he said. "I can't have you hurting my rep as the team badass."

"Hugs _are_ badass." She squeezed him just a bit tighter. "But I won't."

In that moment, Floyd made a contract with himself. He knew Harley would never let him send a bullet through the Joker's stupid forehead tattoo. But if Floyd mashed his face in a bit with the non-business end of his rifle, well, what was the harm in that?

Maybe then he'd actually look like a clown.


End file.
